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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 203/416
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The
young
girls
in
lawns
,
muslins
,
and
garden
hats
,
returning
from
the
Post
Office
,
their
hands
full
of
letters
,
must
surely
see
in
him
the
type
of
the
failure
,
the
bankrupt
.
Then
brusquely
his
tardy
rage
flamed
up
.
By
God
,
NO
,
it
was
not
his
fault
;
he
had
made
no
mistake
.
His
energy
,
industry
,
and
foresight
had
been
sound
.
He
had
been
merely
the
object
of
a
colossal
trick
,
a
sordid
injustice
,
a
victim
of
the
insatiate
greed
of
the
monster
,
caught
and
choked
by
one
of
those
millions
of
tentacles
suddenly
reaching
up
from
below
,
from
out
the
dark
beneath
his
feet
,
coiling
around
his
throat
,
throttling
him
,
strangling
him
,
sucking
his
blood
.
For
a
moment
he
thought
of
the
courts
,
but
instantly
laughed
at
the
idea
.
What
court
was
immune
from
the
power
of
the
monster
?
Ah
,
the
rage
of
helplessness
,
the
fury
of
impotence
!
No
help
,
no
hope
,
—
ruined
in
a
brief
instant
—
he
a
veritable
giant
,
built
of
great
sinews
,
powerful
,
in
the
full
tide
of
his
manhood
,
having
all
his
health
,
all
his
wits
.
How
could
he
now
face
his
home
?
How
could
he
tell
his
mother
of
this
catastrophe
?
And
Sidney
—
the
little
tad
;
how
could
he
explain
to
her
this
wretchedness
—
how
soften
her
disappointment
?
How
keep
the
tears
from
out
her
eyes
—
how
keep
alive
her
confidence
in
him
—
her
faith
in
his
resources
?
Bitter
,
fierce
,
ominous
,
his
wrath
loomed
up
in
his
heart
.
His
fists
gripped
tight
together
,
his
teeth
clenched
.
Oh
,
for
a
moment
to
have
his
hand
upon
the
throat
of
S
.
Behrman
,
wringing
the
breath
from
him
,
wrenching
out
the
red
life
of
him
—
staining
the
street
with
the
blood
sucked
from
the
veins
of
the
People
!
To
the
first
friend
that
he
met
,
Dyke
told
the
tale
of
the
tragedy
,
and
to
the
next
,
and
to
the
next
.
The
affair
went
from
mouth
to
mouth
,
spreading
with
electrical
swiftness
,
overpassing
and
running
ahead
of
Dyke
himself
,
so
that
by
the
time
he
reached
the
lobby
of
the
Yosemite
House
,
he
found
his
story
awaiting
him
.
A
group
formed
about
him
.
In
his
immediate
vicinity
business
for
the
instant
was
suspended
.
The
group
swelled
.
One
after
another
of
his
friends
added
themselves
to
it
.
Magnus
Derrick
joined
it
,
and
Annixter
.
Again
and
again
,
Dyke
recounted
the
matter
,
beginning
with
the
time
when
he
was
discharged
from
the
same
corporation
’
s
service
for
refusing
to
accept
an
unfair
wage
.
His
voice
quivered
with
exasperation
;
his
heavy
frame
shook
with
rage
;
his
eyes
were
injected
,
bloodshot
;
his
face
flamed
vermilion
,
while
his
deep
bass
rumbled
throughout
the
running
comments
of
his
auditors
like
the
thunderous
reverberation
of
diapason
.
From
all
points
of
view
,
the
story
was
discussed
by
those
who
listened
to
him
,
now
in
the
heat
of
excitement
,
now
calmly
,
judicially
.
One
verdict
,
however
,
prevailed
.
It
was
voiced
by
Annixter
:
“
You
’
re
stuck
.
You
can
roar
till
you
’
re
black
in
the
face
,
but
you
can
’
t
buck
against
the
Railroad
.
There
’
s
nothing
to
be
done
.
”
“
You
can
shoot
the
ruffian
,
you
can
shoot
S
.
Behrman
,
”
clamoured
one
of
the
group
.
“
Yes
,
sir
;
by
the
Lord
,
you
can
shoot
him
.
”
“
Poor
fool
,
”
commented
Annixter
,
turning
away
.
Nothing
to
be
done
.
No
,
there
was
nothing
to
be
done
—
not
one
thing
.
Dyke
,
at
last
alone
and
driving
his
team
out
of
the
town
,
turned
the
business
confusedly
over
in
his
mind
from
end
to
end
.
Advice
,
suggestion
,
even
offers
of
financial
aid
had
been
showered
upon
him
from
all
directions
.
Friends
were
not
wanting
who
heatedly
presented
to
his
consideration
all
manner
of
ingenious
plans
,
wonderful
devices
.
They
were
worthless
.
The
tentacle
held
fast
.
He
was
stuck
.
By
degrees
,
as
his
wagon
carried
him
farther
out
into
the
country
,
and
open
empty
fields
,
his
anger
lapsed
,
and
the
numbness
of
bewilderment
returned
.
He
could
not
look
one
hour
ahead
into
the
future
;
could
formulate
no
plans
even
for
the
next
day
.
He
did
not
know
what
to
do
.
He
was
stuck
.
